


Dragons Eat Princesses, Don't They?

by Warwelf



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Biting, Blood and Injury, Cooking Play, Don't Try This At Home, Dragonborn (D&D), Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious at First but It Gets Better, F/M, If it hasn't gotten to the content of one of these tags yet it will, Mixed First and Second Person PoV, Non-Human Genitalia, Planned for 4-5 Chapters, Reader's Left Leg is Injured, Rough Lots of Things, Rough Oral Sex, Smut, Tags May Change, Temperature Play, Unconventional Use of Breath Weapons, reader is a princess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 16:06:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20117821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warwelf/pseuds/Warwelf
Summary: Your people have sent you, a princess, to me, Ramekh the Red, Dragon-Lord of the Pass of Sorrows, as tribute. You are a princess... I am Dragonborn... and dragons eat princesses, don't they?





	Dragons Eat Princesses, Don't They?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zillywho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zillywho/gifts).

> I'm writing this fic primarily to an audience of one, but I do hope that anyone else who may stumble across it likes what they find. All feedback is appreciated, particularly since I'm posting chapters with minimal initial proofreading. If you point out any errors now, you may save me work later when/if I come back to do a proper proofing pass. ^^;
> 
> I put this in the tags, but let me reiterate just once more, Do Not Try This At Home. This story is purely fantasy (in more than one sense of the word), and no healthy real-world sexual relationship, BDSM or otherwise, should start like this. That said, please enjoy!

Your people seldom set foot on the winding stairs, carved directly into the stone of the mountain, which lead up to Gralnak’s Tooth, the citadel which towers over the Pass of Sorrows. My citadel. Aversion is a natural reaction… after all, as all the maps say, here be dragons. Today, however, you have no choice but to make the journey, and the reason is the same. Here be dragons.

You can’t make the climb yourself; your left leg is injured, and your people have had to rig up a sort of sedan chair with bearers in order to deliver you. Of course, the chair would likely have been necessary regardless, since you are also bound hand and foot. You resisted being sent to me; in fact, I hear that your leg was injured in an escape attempt. Even after the injury, when you could barely walk, you kept struggling. You struggled so much that they had to tie you to your chair, lest you throw yourself from it.

I watch from a window as you are carried up the stairs. The stairs are ancient and uneven, and I imagine that each step jars your chair, sends shooting pains up your leg. I smile at that thought. That pain is the result of trying to escape me; that pain is punishment. For your sake, I hope you’re learning the right lesson. I am patient, and I would not mind teaching you again, but I suspect you might not enjoy the repetition.

The stairs are long, and I tire of the view well before you reach the doors of my citadel. Imagining the pain of a human speck, viewed from a distance, is only satisfying in the most abstract sense. It’s no comparison to what is to come, and I must make sure that all is ready for your arrival. You are, after all, a princess, and your high station is still important. It would not do to trust the details of your welcome to the discretion of servants. Some sense of decorum must be preserved.

I do not, however, greet you immediately upon your arrival at the gates of Gralnak’s Tooth. I confess that I have some fondness for theatrics, and I don’t want you to ever forget your first sight of me. My guards and my servants are curt with your chair-bearers, disdainful of your people. Your people who would give up their own princess as tribute. Even the lowest scullery maid or stable boy of my household would have greater pride than that. But your people’s pride was broken, what, a dozen of your generations past? Can any of you even dream of resistance, after so many years spent beneath my family’s boot?

I suppose I should admire you for your attempt to escape your fate, futile as it might have been.

On my servants’ orders, your bearers carry you down (more stairs, more jarring steps, more pain) into the lower levels of my citadel. The walls are carved directly from the stone of the mountain, and there is no light but the flickering glow of firelight. You may expect to be taken to a prison cell, or a torture chamber, or even to a pile of gleaming treasure, an old-fashioned hoard, but instead your chair is taken to a chamber appointed as a sort of kitchen. To your left a massive cast-iron cauldron sits atop a pile of wood beneath an admittedly crude chimney flue. To your right a table, as big as the sumptuous bed in your royal chambers, but its surface is dark wood, once polished smooth, but since marred with scratches and gouges. An assortment of leather straps dangle beneath the table, secured somehow to its underside. There is an alcove just beyond the table, and from its walls hang a dizzying array of implements. Most fit the kitchen theme implied by the cauldron, including diverse assortments of knives and of cooking vessels, but those to the right side of the alcove have curious and unfamiliar designs. At the center of the alcove is another fireplace, much better constructed than the cauldron’s makeshift accommodation, with a fire already roaring on its hearth.

Your bearers set your chair down in the middle of the kitchen-chamber and, per orders, leave the room. Before long, their retreating footsteps fade from your hearing and you are left alone, still bound tightly to your chair, no sound in your ears but the crackle of flames and your own small whimpers, your sole grudging concession to the pain radiating from your injured leg and gnawing at your rope-abraded wrists and ankles.

Well, you aren’t quite alone. But your human eyes are weak, unable to discern the thin vision slot in the shadowy gloom of the far wall, the narrow opening through which I watch you. I watch and I wait, wondering how you will respond to your apparent abandonment here in this strange chamber, here in the very heart of my domain.

You struggle against your bonds, straining to escape. You struggle, even though the ropes are tight enough that your fingers and toes are going numb. You struggle, even though each movement of your bound legs sends pain flaring up your whole left side. You do your best to stifle your screams, lest someone hear you and come running to forestall your attempted escape, but from my vantage point I can still hear how profoundly you hurt.

I smile to myself. In all honesty, I’m glad to see your spirit, your instinctual drive toward self-preservation. True, it is impossible for you to escape or resist me, and true, I do want you to learn and remember the futility of rebellion, but I would never want you to forget all your pride. You are a princess, and you are an object which belongs to me, and both of those distinctions elevate you above the common herd of human swine. If you could not comport yourself as befits your station, you would… Well, you would disappoint me. And it is not healthy for humans to disappoint me.

I step back from my viewing slit. I have seen enough. The time has come to introduce myself.

I can hear your breath catch as I push open the heavy double doors opposite your chair. Shadows hang over the entryway, but you can grasp something of my stature… my height at least half a head taller than the tallest human man you have ever met, the broad sweep of my powerful shoulders. Perhaps you make out the silhouette of the horns which curve to sharp points behind my head. I snort a tiny ember of flame from my left nostril, offering you a momentary glimpse of half of a scaled face, of a single glaring eye.

And then I descend the short flight of steps which lead from those doors to the kitchen below, stepping down into the light. From the neck down, my well-muscled body is sheathed in soft black fabric: soft-soled boots, silken trousers, a velvet doublet over a silken shirt, and gloves of kid leather. Above the neck, my tough, dark-red scales are on full display, craggy ridges of scales framing my yellow, slit-pupiled eyes and lining my projecting, toothy snout. My black horns are shorter than my skull, but they are banded with thick ridges. Beneath those horns, my head is fringed by a couple of layered frills. My frills are the only part of my imposing, draconic head which looks the slightest bit soft to your eyes.

I smile at you. My teeth are a predator’s, all cruel sharp points. My pink tongue flicks between them eagerly, tasting the air. While you’re trying to be brave, I see you cringe just a little at the sight of my teeth, and that only makes me smile wider. I am going to enjoy this.

You know me on sight, even though you have never laid eyes on me before. My family’s pride and ambition are, perhaps, a touch too great. We can seldom tolerate each other’s presence for any considerable length of time, bar mating pairs or brooding mothers. There is, then, only one man dwelling at Gralnak’s Tooth who is Dragonborn. There is only one man to whom you have been given as tribute, only one who holds your fate in his claw. There is only Ramekh the Red, Dragon-Lord of the Pass of Sorrows, seventh of his line. There is only _me_.

I know you from diplomatic correspondence, starting from the handful of letters necessary to remind your father of his outstanding indebtedness to me, of the precise extent and nature of his family’s obligation to its liege lord, of the extreme consequences sure to follow any failure on his part to uphold any aspect of the ancient bargains struck between our peoples. I learned more of you from the letters which followed, the letters confirming details of date and place, the letters which drew you, inevitably, closer and closer to this day, this chamber, and this moment.

Now, however, the details from those letters matter not at all. All that matters is that you, a princess of your people, a woman of the very noblest blood, now belong, wholly and completely, to me. And I, you know…

Well, I _am_ a dragon.

And you _are_ a princess.

I am going to eat you.


End file.
